


It's Been A While.

by searchingforpeter



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Dwalin - Freeform, Dwalin x Thorin, Frottage, M/M, PWP, Thorin x Dwalin, Wordy Porn, thorin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 22:57:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/searchingforpeter/pseuds/searchingforpeter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwalin and Thorin haven't met for some time, prior to arriving at Bag End. They both know what's going to happen when they finally get some time alone together. </p><p>PWP; originally from a prompt on my tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Been A While.

Thorin keeps his distance from the moment he enters the Hobbit’s home. Dwalin knows better than to try to catch their soon-to-be King in a corner and steal so much as a touch that isn’t explicitly permitted. It’s never so simple as a touch, never something so chaste as a kiss. They are warriors both and their fierce approach to battle and challenge does not simply stay there.

It has been too long for them both to let a touch stay a touch. Dwalin has not so much as laid eyes on Thorin in what seems like years. It has only been months, but their leader has carried their people far and wide and worked endlessly to have them comfortable and content enough to call somewhere that simply will never be Erebor home for the time being. Dwalin has too been occupied and time and place hasn’t afforded them any luxuries.

Until now.

The others have long since gone to bed. Curled in corners and bent at odd angles on chairs, the company rests; the Hobbit has stalked off to wherever he has laid his bed, and Gandalf sits, pensive, by the fire. Dwalin knows this is as good a moment as any, if not one of the best.

He misses Balin’s knowing eye from where he sleeps, curled in an armchair, as he creeps through the Hobbit hole as best his heavy feet and frame will allow him.

Dwarves are not built for sneaking.

Thorin hears him coming from down the hall, boots cumbersome and causing his feet to drag. He’s already sat up, waiting, when Dwalin enters.

The room isn’t as tense as either of them expect. It’s been far too long and much time has passed between them, but it’s nothing if not comfortable. The door snicks closed, the bolt is drawn, and both Dwarves allow themselves a moment just to appreciate that the time they have spent apart has come to this: A stolen romp in a Hobbit’s home, of all the places.

"You’re stockier than when we last met, Son of Fundin."

A smirk curls on Dwalin’s face as he begins to shed belts and furs, along with his boots. “Aye and you carry the marks of silver in your mane, Son of Thrain. Age has given you wisdom where it has given me mass.”

Dwalin is one of the few - his nephews not included, of course - that can make a laugh pour from the lips of Thorin without too much effort. There’s a shared knowledge between them that despite all of the horrors they have faced, there is light to be found if they say the right thing at the right moment. They have shared much and will always do so, and Thorin is grateful for his old friend in more ways than one. 

He watches as the tattooed dwarf reveals himself slowly. He removes each item with the care of a man that has spent too long putting up his shields to cast them aside, and it is something they both know to be true. With enough removed to leave his chest bare and his trousers unlaced, Dwalin turns and the smirk has not left his lips.

"Mass, perhaps, but you’ve put it to good use. I had almost forgotten what you looked like, beneath all of that bulk."

The tattoos are the same, rippling across muscle and skin, delving beneath thick, dark hair and running down beneath his trousers. Thorin knows all too well that every inch of him would be covered in ink if he had been gifted with the time and the means to do so.

He pushes back the covers on the Hobbit’s finest bed and Dwalin knows an invitation when he sees one. Thorin is already bare, having anticipated their night from the moment the bedroom had been given to him by their host, and his cock stirs against his thigh, interest taken as the larger dwarf dips the mattress with his weight.

The atmosphere shifts in seconds.

It’s no longer calm, no longer collected and decent and conversational. There is no jovial banter, no words. A palm reaches to a furred chest, touches warm skin, confirms that they have once again been given a moment to themselves, and Thorin finds himself pinned, Dwalin’s weight atop him, mouth forced open by a demanding tongue and clashing teeth.

And  _Mahal_ how he’s waited for this. His hands fist in Dwalin’s hair, gripping hard as fingers pull over the baldness between the edges. Thorin’s movements border desperate as his hands push through his hair, blunt nails scraping over his neck and shoulders, running down the broad, scarred length of his back. He remembers each scar, remembers how it got there, how long it took to heal. He knows the tattoos that pass over them and under them and around them without even having to look.

"Too long." Dwalin is breathing against his lips, reverent sounding words, and Thorin digs his hands into his hips, the heels of his palms dragging his trousers down without unlacing them. 

"Then stop talking." Thorin grumbles, and a prince’s order is one he cannot deny, even if he had the inclination to do so.

Dwalin doesn’t get his trousers off. He barely manages them down to his calves before he is being pulled forwards, hands grabbing and groping at whatever bare skin he has on show, his own mirroring each clawing motion on the body laid before him. Their kisses are needy, frantic, often missing lips and mouths and dragging across cheeks and chins and jaws.

He bites at Thorin’s neck as he grinds their bodies together, eliciting heavy, heady moans from his future king. There’s a fumbling moment where they fight to get their hands between themselves, stretched awkwardly across Bilbo Baggins’ bed; it’s broken by a long, low groan from the larger dwarf, head hanging forward as a clever, sword-calloused hand wraps around both of their cocks. Dwalin manages to add his own before pushing forwards into the purposefully tight circle of their fists.

It’s hot, too hot, and fast enough for Dwalin to need to support himself with a hand on the headboard. They’ve waited too long to be concerned with finding oil in the Hobbit’s drawers, to prepare one or the other and get into each other as they would like to. This will do, and it is certainly doing well enough to satisfy them.

Their gasps and moans fill the space between them, Dwalin’s hair forming curtains around Thorin’s face as he nips at his lips and jaw, body bucking up beneath his old friend. They’re stumbling with no technique, powered by lust and desperation and the need to come and come and keep on coming until they are boneless and wrapped in one another. Thorin’s spare hand fists in the back of his hair and drags Dwalin down into a blinding kiss; the prince keens into his lover’s mouth as he comes, spilling between them both, teeth pulling at Dwalin’s bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.

Dwalin is not long after, grunting against Thorin’s lips as he spills over their hands and the other dwarf’s softening cock. His hand aches, and he glances up long enough to see the split wood and the cracked headboard and the few small splinters poking out from his palm. He slumps to one side, their breathing heavy, and the silence around their breaths is broken only by the soft chuckle beside him.

Thorin rolls, nonplussed about the Hobbit’s linens, and pins him with a surprisingly soft kiss. “We will not leave it so long, next time.”

When he chuckles, it echoes against Thorin’s lips, “Aye, I don’t plan on leavin’ it any longer than a few moments, my lad. Just let me recover, and I would have y’properly.”

*

The next morning, every dwarf has a knowing look upon his face as they set off, saddled on their ponies, moving away from the Shire. Gandalf scolds Fili and Kili for speculating about just what their uncle got up to the night before, and Balin does the same not long after.

When Bilbo joins them, he looks flustered, and not just from his run to catch up. His cheeks heat whenever he catches the sight of Dwalin or Thorin, and Dwalin knows that he found the cracked headboard and soiled sheets and used vials of oil that morning, though they had done their best to be courteous and clean up after themselves.


End file.
